


Five Hours to Almaty

by Charmsilver



Series: Fives [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Aged-Up Otabek Altin, Aged-Up Yuri Plisetsky, Almaty, Angst, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-29 02:08:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10844283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charmsilver/pseuds/Charmsilver
Summary: In which Otabek says all the wrong things, but does all the right things. Somewhere in the middle everything works out.





	Five Hours to Almaty

**Author's Note:**

> This was not the story I set out to write, but it's something.

His phone starts to vibrate on the nightstand at around two thirty in the morning. Otabek fumbles for it sleepily, nearly knocking it onto the floor in his bleary state. St Petersburg is three hours behind Almaty, so he’s not altogether surprised to see Yuri’s name on the screen, but he can’t help wincing at the brightness of the interface and the volume of his ringtone.

“Yuri?” he says into the receiver, though it comes out more like ‘– _ri_?’ since his voice still hasn’t caught up with his brain yet.

“Beka?” A quiet voice says on the other end. “Hey.” There’s a hitch in Yuri’s voice, a quiet exhale, then silence.

Otabek sits up in bed and rubs a hand over his face. His heartbeat picks up a little. “Is everything okay?” he asks.

“Yes. Everything’s fine. I just –“ His words falter, and Otabek can tell without much effort that Yuri is holding back tears. “We had to put Moorka to sleep.” The voice goes silent again, as if Yuri is holding a hand over the phone.

“Oh.” Moorka was Yuri’s cat, the fluffy creature that featured in almost every one of Yuri’s Instagram posts. “What happened?”

“Don’t know,” Yuri chokes. “She stopped eating, wasn’t herself. Then she had a seizure. The vet said –“ but a sob overtakes him before he can finish the sentence, and Otabek finds himself shushing Yuri, trying to soothe him despite not being able to touch.

“Do you want to do a video call?” Otabek asks.

There’s a shuffling sound, then Yuri says, “da,” and Otabek presses the video button. It takes a second for the images to connect, and then Yuri’s face and shoulders appear on the screen, slumped against the pillows of his bed, his face red and stained with tears. He’s wearing his usual scowl, but his expression is one of misery.

“Hey,” Otabek says. He feels awkward, like anything he says will be inadequate; he’s never had a pet himself, though he knows how much Yuri loved that cat. “Are you okay?”

“Do I look like I’m okay?” Yuri spits. He drags his sleeve over his eyes, sniffing furiously.

Otabek ignores this outburst; Yuri has never been good at directing his frustrations appropriately. “Is somebody there with you?” he continues, wondering if Katsuki or Victor have been to see him yet.

“Lilia’s here,” Yuri says. “But I don’t want to talk to her.”

“What about Victor? Katsuki?”

“Tch,” Yuri mutters, though it lacks conviction. “They were here earlier, but I kicked them out.”

Otabek frowns, but doesn’t comment. “Yuri,” he says carefully. “I’m sorry.” _I’m sorry your cat passed away. I’m sorry I wasn’t there._

As almost always happens when they video call, Otabek wishes more than anything that he could simply reach out and touch Yuri. This time, the desire is amplified a hundred fold.

Yuri sobs once, a broken thing, then falls into silence again. There’s a long pause, in which Otabek wishes he knew what to say but can’t think of anything at all. Then Yuri speaks up. “I want to visit you,” he says, with the kind of determination only Yuri Plisestsky can express mid-cry.

“Okay,” Otabek says, before he’s really thought about it.

Sniffing, Yuri rubs the tears from his eyes with his sleeve and sits up a little straighter. “When?”

“Well,” Otabek says slowly. “Sooner is better, before the weather gets too hot.”

Less than an hour later Yuri’s booked flights for the following week, and Otabek is left feeling dizzy with the prospect of seeing Yuri so soon. His hands flex, suddenly recalling the sweetness of holding Yuri close to him again.

Afterwards Yuri seems calmer, and he ends the call looking like he might get some sleep. Otabek sends him a quick text to follow up, promising to call again in the morning, and then he flops back into bed, wishing that Yuri could have booked his flights for tomorrow, rather than a week later.

***

The week goes by in a flurry of practice, and pretty soon he finds himself at the airport, his nerves a little jittery as he makes his way to the arrival gate. He’s early by a couple of minutes, so he stands back from the barrier as other people begin to fill the area, jostling for a spot closest to the gate.

Yuri’s flight is on time, and eventually the passengers begin to spill out of the terminal, their tired faces lighting up as they spot their loved ones along the barrier. Otabek stays behind, but he keeps a close eye out for that streak of yellow hair. Yuri must have been near the back of the plane, because he emerges after most of the people have already left, dragging a silver and black tiger print suitcase behind him and wearing an uncharacteristically vulnerable expression.

Otabek wends his way through the leftover people and stands directly in Yuri’s line of sight, heart pumping as his hands itch to pull Yuri into an embrace.

As soon as Yuri sees him, he speeds up, advancing on Otabek with grim determination. Otabek opens his arms for him, and although Yuri doesn’t leap onto him like last time, he does crash into him with impressive force, letting his suitcase drop to the ground as he wraps his arms around Otabek’s back and nudges his face into the crook of Otabek’s neck.

Otabek holds him with an arm around his waist, the other tangled through his hair, and even though Yuri doesn’t cry, his body trembles when Otabek kisses him, privately, on the temple.

“Let’s get out of here,” Yuri says, extracting himself from Otabek’s arms and bending down to wrench his suitcase off the floor. Otabek leads the way out of the airport building and flags down a taxi, having left his bike at home. Inside the stuffy vehicle, Yuri curls up against the door and stares blankly out the window, his angular features softened slightly by the hazy sunlight. Instead of reaching out to touch him, Otabek lets Yuri be, assuming that he doesn’t want to show any affection while the taxi-driver looks on.

The drive takes just under an hour, and by the time they arrive outside Otabek’s building Yuri hasn’t looked at him once.

That changes as soon as Otabek shuts the door of his apartment behind him, when Yuri throws his suitcase on the couch, marches up to Otabek, and descends, abruptly and violently, into a fit of sobbing. Otabek, who has never dealt with any thing like this in his life, freezes with his arms locked around Yuri’s shuddering frame, his collar already growing damp from Yuri’s tears.

It occurs to him, then, that there is more to this than a dead cat.

“Yura,” he says after a while, “let’s sit on the couch.”

Though it’s awkward, Otabek manages to shuffle Yuri onto the couch and tuck a blanket around his shoulders. Yuri hiccups, but his sobs have mostly subsided so Otabek thinks it’s probably safe to go and make them both some tea.

When he returns Yuri has sunk down into the cushions, his knees curled up to his stomach and his arms tucked underneath a pillow on which his head is resting. He’s dozing, his tear-stained face relaxed in sleep. Otabek sets their mugs down carefully on the coffee table and sits cross-legged on the floor opposite the couch so he can watch over the sleeping Russian. After a while Yuri twitches into wakefulness and the serenity of his nap gives way to a glare.

“What are you looking at?” he says, but it’s without a hint of malice so Otabek just sighs and shifts closer so he can run a hand through Yuri’s hair. Yuri huffs and says, “get off,” in a way that Otabek is pretty sure means _Don’t stop, please_ , so he continues, moving his hand to scratch delicately at the base of Yuri’s skull.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Otabek asks at length, withdrawing his fingers from Yuri’s head.

The blanket rustles as Yuri sits up; he scrubs harshly at his face with his hands before reaching for the tea Otabek made for him. It’s lukewarm now, but Yuri drinks it anyway, wiping his lips with the back of his sleeve when he’s done.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” he says eventually. “I want you to show me Almaty.”

Otabek watches him for a moment; he knows that Yuri is deflecting, knows that Yuri won’t open up unless he’s forced. Right now, however, Otabek doesn’t want to push him. “Fine,” he says. “Did you bring your helmet?”

Yuri shakes his head. “You can borrow my spare then. Come on.” Otabek stands up and offers his hand to Yuri. He grasps it in warm fingers and uses it to lever himself to his feet. For a moment, Otabek considers pulling Yuri into his arms again, but the staunch expression on his face tells Otabek that Yuri doesn’t want to feel vulnerable anymore, that he needs Otabek to treat him as if nothing is wrong. So instead he squeezes Yuri’s palm gently before letting go so he can get the helmet and his keys.

Yuri disappears into the bathroom, and Otabek hears the sound of the tap running, and then splashing, as Yuri washes the tear tracks from his face.

***

They don’t go anywhere in particular; Otabek does a loop around his neighbourhood and points out his home rink as they pass. Yuri holds Otabek tightly, his hands shoved inside Otabek’s jacket pockets, his body a line of tense energy thrumming at Otabek’s back. The drive seems to calm him, though, so Otabek drags it out, taking them past his childhood neighbourhood, his old high school, the first club he DJed at, the local mosque. He doesn’t tell Yuri any of this because the roar of the bike is too loud, but Yuri presses his fingers against Otabek’s stomach every so often, as if to say that he’s listening anyway.

Finally Otabek stops at a café not far from his apartment. Inside the air is cool and the aroma of baking bread is strong. Otabek orders them both coffee and Yuri finds them a table in the corner where they can sit and watch the people passing outside.

“That was your home rink that we passed, wasn’t it?” Yuri asks as Otabek sits down opposite him.

“Yes,” Otabek affirms.

“You have to take me there sometime.”

“I will.”

Yuri nods, but his mouth is still turned down at the corners. The waiter appears and sets their coffees in front of them and once he’s gone Yuri picks up his spoon and begins to play with the froth in his cup. He chews his lip, which is a new habit, and then he drops his spoon to the table and says, “I can’t skate,” all in the same breath.

Otabek blinks and pauses with his mug halfway to his lips. “What does that mean?” he asks, perhaps a little abruptly, because Yuri flinches.

“It means I can’t skate.” Yuri presses his lips together. “Since Moorka died. Yakov told me to take a break because I was flubbing all my jumps. It’s like I’ve lost something.”

Otabek doesn’t speak for a moment, unsure of what to say. “Yuri,” he begins, “you have lost something. You’re grieving.”

“I _know_ ,” Yuri growls, frustration in his tone.

“Is there something else?” Otabek prods.

Yuri turns his gaze to the window and watches the cars driving by, a wounded look on his face. “My grandpa,” he begins slowly, “he’s the only family I have left.” He glances at Otabek, and fear is visible in his irises. “What if –“ he breaks off abruptly, huffs, and turns his face back to the window.

Otabek reaches for his fingers and touches them lightly where they rest on the table. “I get it,” he says.

“It’s stupid,” Yuri says. “But I can’t stop thinking it. He’s not in the best health, and he just keeps getting older.”

Otabek grimaces and curls his hand a little more securely over Yuri’s knuckles. “Maybe this isn’t what you need to hear,” he says, “but, Yuri, your grandfather isn’t going to be around forever, but he is around now. Save your grief for when he’s really gone.”

Yuri blinks. “You think I don’t know that?” he says with a slight hiss. “I can’t help that this is how I feel.” He tugs his hand out from underneath Otabek’s. “I want to leave now,” he declares. “Let’s go.” He picks himself up from the chair and leads the way out of the café, Otabek trailing behind, wondering if he should apologise or just leave it be.

***

Later, separated by an invisible thread of tension, Yuri curls up at the very end of Otabek’s couch and scrolls through Instagram on his phone, pretending as best he can that Otabek doesn’t exist. Otabek, for his part, makes Yuri some tea, but it’s ignored and left to grow cold on the table.

Eventually, Otabek gets tired. “Yuri,” he says, sitting on the floor a few feet away from Yuri just like earlier. “I’m sorry if I said the wrong thing.”

Yuri pauses in his vacuous scrolling and looks up, meeting Otabek’s gaze with narrowed eyes. He drops his phone onto the cushions and runs a pale hand over his head and down his ponytail, which he pulls out, letting his hair fall loose about his shoulders. “You didn’t,” he says simply. “You said the exact right fucking thing, Otabek.” He draws the syllables of Otabek’s name out so that it sounds almost mocking. Something about that stings.

“Then what is the problem?” Otabek asks, summoning all the patience he can.

Quiet. A subtle shift in Yuri’s demeanour. Then, “Moorka,” Yuri breathes. “I miss her.”

A silence settles about them like mist, filling Otabek’s ears until he breaks it with a word. “Okay,” he says quietly. “Can I hold you?”

This seems to surprise Yuri; he blushes faintly and nods, shifting a little to make room for Otabek on the couch. Otabek moves without hesitation; he tugs Yuri into his arms and holds him tightly, breathing a sigh of relief when he feels Yuri’s damp breath brush across his collar, and Yuri’s nose nudge against the skin of his shoulder. They stay like that for several minutes, feeling the rise and fall of each other’s chests, and then Otabek slides his fingers into Yuri’s hair and pets him gently until he falls asleep.

***

The following day, after a breakfast of toast and coffee, Otabek offers Yuri his helmet. “There’s a place I want you to see,” he tells him, as Yuri curls his fingers around the rim, a question in his eyes. “It’s a long drive, and it’ll be cold, so wear something warm, and with a hood.”

“Okay,” Yuri says slowly, still looking curiously at Otabek. “Cold? Really?”

“Yes.” Otabek nods. “You can borrow my old leather jacket.”

Yuri disappears into the bedroom to get changed while Otabek cleans up in the kitchen. Ten minutes later they’re ready to go and Otabek listens to Yuri grumble about the heat all the way down the stairs.

They drive east and eventually ascend into the mountains, the air growing cooler as they reach higher altitudes. Yuri’s arms are loose around Otabek’s waist; he seems at ease here, on the back of the motorcycle, and it fills Otabek with something warm as he thinks about what strength of trust Yuri must have in him.

There’s no snow at this time of year, but it’s cold enough that Otabek’s face stings from the bite of the wind. At a rest stop on a gravelly outcrop, Otabek pulls the bike up and kills the engine. Yuri slides off and curses, rubbing at his chilled arms. They turn simultaneously to look in the direction from where they came, and Yuri’s sharp exhalation is visible as a puff of frosty white in the mountain air.

The city of Almaty is spread out below them, stretching for miles, glittering in the morning sunlight. Yuri takes a slight step forward and whips out his phone to take a picture. “Is this what you wanted to show me?” he asks.

“No,” Otabek says, coming to stand beside Yuri, a hand resting in the small of his back.

“No?” Yuri shoots him an incredulous look.

Otabek cocks his head. “It’s just a little further, but I thought you might like to see this too.”

A quiet moment passes and then they both clamber back onto Otabek’s bike. The drive is winding as it takes them even higher into the mountains, the air crisp and clear in their lungs. Eventually the road levels out and they arrive in a large parking lot. As the engine switches off and they remove their helmets, Yuri makes a surprised noise between Otabek’s shoulder blades.

“Is this a rink?” he asks, and Otabek swivels to see his wide eyes.

He nods, smiling when Yuri says. “Whoa,” and clambers off the bike.

“Put your hood up,” Otabek tells him, doing the same with his own.

“I’ve heard of this place,” Yuri says, a little breathlessly, covering his face with his leopard-print hood. It’s not as inconspicuous as Otabek would have liked, but it’ll do. “Medeu, right? The highest rink in the world.”

“So they say,” Otabek confirms.

“Huh.” Yuri turns to him, still looking a little quizzical. “We’re going skating?”

Otabek nods.

“But I didn’t bring my skates.”

“We can hire them.”

Yuri’s expression quickly turns to one of horror. “Hire them? Like – like –“

“Normal people?” Otabek raises an eyebrow at him and grins. “That’s the point. Today you’re not the Russian Punk and I’m not the Hero of Kazakhstan. We’re just Yuri and Otabek. Get it?”

“Uh.” Yuri blinks. “No!”

Otabek sighs. “Come on,” he says, already walking in the direction of the entrance. “We’re already here, aren’t we?”

Grumbling loudly, Yuri skulks after Otabek, hands deep in pockets, head bowed low. _Good_ , Otabek thinks, _It’ll make it harder for people to recognise you_. Otabek draws his own hood a little closer over his head. He only hopes the ticketeer won’t make a fuss; there’s no way to avoid being recognised by at least a few of the staff here.

At the booth they buy their tickets, with skate hire, and Otabek ignores the curious look the woman gives them as she hands them their passes. Inside the rink walls it’s colder even than outside, though it’s open to the elements. They make their way to skate hire where another very confused staff member hands them skates in their shoe sizes. On the bench, Yuri shoves his foot into the first skate with a snarl.

“Horrible,” he confirms. “How does anybody skate in these?”

“Well, get used to it,” Otabek says calmly, securing his own skates. Yuri’s not wrong; they’re uncomfortable in all the wrong places, but Otabek’s not going to give Yuri the satisfaction of admitting it. Once their skates are fastened Yuri stands and makes for the entrance, but Otabek pulls him back with a hand on his sleeve.

“This is just fun,” he tells Yuri. “No pressure.” He reaches into Yuri’s hood and pulls a tuft a hair over Yuri’s eye, obscuring it. “Nobody needs to know who you are.”

“Okay, okay, I get it!” Yuri rolls his eyes, but he looks relaxed. “You’re the one whose posters are all over the place anyway. Did you think I wouldn’t notice?” Yuri points to something beyond Otabek’s shoulder. “The Hero of Kazakhstan,” he reads, his visible eye glinting. “It’s a good picture,” he adds, and Otabek snorts, not bothering to look. He’s seen them before after all.

“Don’t pretend like your posters aren’t all over the rinks in Russia, Yura,” Otabek counters.

“Whatever.” Yuri breaks free of Otabek’s hold and makes for the rink. Otabek follows and they push off from the edge together.

Already, though they’ve barely gone a few metres, people are beginning to watch them. Most of the people here have only ever skated a handful of times, and few have the confidence that he and Yuri possess on the ice. Many of the younger skaters are simply pulling themselves around the edge of the barrier with their hands. As Yuri propels himself forward and pirouettes slowly, someone points at him and whispers to their friend.

Unwilling to let this day end with a hundred requests for autographs, Otabek catches up to Yuri and grabs him by the arm. “Maybe try to pretend like you’re not the greatest skater in the world, hm?”

Yuri’s grin catches Otabek off-guard. “You think I’m the best?”

“You’re the current Olympic Champion,” Otabek reminds him. “You _are_ the best. But people are already staring. Just act like you don’t know what you’re doing, okay?” He adjusts Yuri’s hood, then his own.

To demonstrate, Otabek pushes away from Yuri and skates forward, wobbling a bit as he pretends to be off-balance. He hears Yuri snigger in the background but ignores him, spreading his legs wider in an imitation of an uncertain skater. Then he turns, slowly and awkwardly, to face Yuri again. “Well?” he says.

Yuri shakes his head in disbelief but changes his posture anyway so that he looks less at ease. Half way to Otabek he pretends to fall, then uses his flailing arms to propel himself right into Otabek’s chest, which he crashes into with a _whumph_. Otabek catches him, sliding backwards a little.

“Is that what you meant?” Yuri asks, pulling away with a sly smile.

Otabek appraises him for a second, then nods. “Excellent,” he says.

Together they slide their way forward, joining the throng of skaters moving around the rink. Despite trying their best to seem like beginners, they can’t help but skate a little faster than everybody else, overtaking young children who giggle as they whirl their arms about, and the parents who wobble after them, looking only slightly more at ease on the ice than their children. Some of the skaters are more confident, and Yuri yells a Russian obscenity when a particularly bold teenage boy shoots past him, arms flailing as he nearly careens into Yuri’s shoulder.

Otabek grins and gives Yuri a thumbs up. He gets a glare in response, and Yuri does a graceful spin just to spite him, his hair flying free of his hood. A group of girls standing on the other side of the barrier look at them curiously, but Otabek is already pulling Yuri away.

After countless loops around the ice, Yuri starts to get bored. He does a few twirls, skates backwards for a couple of strides, and even practises some balletic arm movements. People are definitely staring now, a few are even pointing, and Otabek swears he hears someone mutter ‘Plisetsky’ from within the crowd.

“If you want to show off,” he murmurs in Yuri’s ear as they speed around the corner, “do it now.”

Yuri nods and increases his speed abruptly, shooting forward and away from Otabek. He skates towards the centre where there are fewer people, finds a suitable gap, and executes a perfect triple axel. He does a quick spin to follow with outstretched arms and his hood flies away from his face, revealing the pink cheeks of one of Russia’s most celebrated figure skaters.

The crowd gasps in collective wonderment, and somebody, somewhere, screams with delight.

Otabek grabs Yuri by the hand and together they make a run for it, rocketing off the ice and throwing their skates at the shocked staff members. As they emerge into the car park, Yuri starts to laugh – a rich, delighted hooting that sends a thrill down Otabek’s spine. He doesn’t stop until he’s jammed his helmet down onto his head and Otabek has gunned the engine, pushing off from the ground and twisting the bike away from Medeu and back towards the city.

***

It’s all over social media by the time they get home.

_Yuri Plisetsky spotted at Medeu in Almaty!_

_The Russian Fairy Wows an Unsuspecting Crowd at Medeu!_

_Caught on Camera: Olympic Gold Medallist Executes Flawless Triple Axel at Public Rink in Kazakhstan. Watch now._

Yuri basks in it. Otabek is just glad his name is only mentioned a handful of times, and mostly in the Kazakh media.

Otabek receives a handful of texts from his family, all of whom seem to have his name watch-listed on every news site in existence. They want to know why he hasn’t introduced them to Yuri yet, since he’s in Almaty and all. Otabek texts back about six ‘ _We’ve been busy. We’ll organise something soon_ ’s to various different family members and then he checks Instagram, to which Yuri has already posted a picture of Almaty from above, bright buildings glittering.

There’s no caption, just the location Medeu Valley and a sun emoji followed by _@otabek-altin_. He recognises it for what it is: an expression of gratitude.

Otabek posts his own picture then. A candid of Yuri mid-twirl, arms light and fluid even in the inertia of the photograph. He’s smiling a little, eyes half-closed as he concentrates on the movement of his body. In the background the other skaters are blurs of colour, and Yuri stands out like a firework in the night sky.

 _Surprise_ , he writes, and tags Yuri.

Five seconds later Yuri yells “ _YOU ASSHOLE_ ” from across the room, and Otabek grins, holding out his arms as Yuri hurls himself into them, his lips finding Otabek’s and kissing him until he feels weak.

***

By the time Yuri leaves Almaty, he’s won over half of Otabek’s family and had his hair braided in about ten different ways by Otabek’s little cousins. He likes the crown braid the best, and demanded that Aisara show him how to do it over and over again until he could do it perfectly himself. Otabek wonders if Yuri does everything the way he skates – with fiery determination and a complete unwillingness to admit defeat.

Later, after a goodbye that was more emotional that either of them would care to admit, and five hours in which Otabek does nothing except stare at the cracks in the ceiling, his phone buzzes.

It’s a Snapchat from Yuri, a selfie of him on the plane, the terminals of St Petersburg airport just visible in the background. Yuri’s hair is in the crown braid and even though his eyes are tired and his expression grumpy from the flight, Otabek still thinks he’s the most beautiful person on the planet.

There’s no text on the picture, but a message comes through a few seconds later, small and without preamble.

_Thank you._

Otabek swallows hard and texts back.

_For what?_

He’s not sure why he asks, since he already knows. Just to see what Yuri will say, he supposes.

Yuri sends back what is essentially a list.

_For showing me Almaty. Medeu. Your family (who are INSANE, by the way). I know what you were doing, and it worked._

_And I’m sorry,_ he adds, which makes Otabek do a double take, because Yuri Plisetsky rarely apologises. The message continues though: _for snapping at you. I was an asshole._

 _Don’t worry about it,_ Otabek fires back quickly. _And you’re welcome. You have to come back though. I never even took you to a gig._

 _Oh my God. Yes. That is so happening._ Yuri sends through a picture of him grinning excitedly and Otabek writes _Cute_ , just to annoy him.

The next selfie shows Yuri glowering, and the caption reads _Fuck you_ , which only makes Otabek laugh.

_I was kidding. You’re terrifying._

_That’s more like it,_ Yuri agrees.

Five hours later and Otabek is surprised to see a new video up on Yuri’s Instagram account. It’s a clip of him skating some routine, perhaps a precursor to one of his new programmes, and it is breathtaking. He hurtles over the ice without hesitation, without fear, without grief. His blades are light on the frozen surface and he transitions into a quad toe loop with complete focus, touching down as if it was the easiest thing in the world. His hair is still in that braid, and to Otabek he looks like a god – beautiful, fierce and unyielding.

_This one’s for you @otabek-altin_


End file.
